


samavyatha

by toujours_nigel



Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Desi Character, Dismemberment, Gen, Hindu Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: "It was a kind thought to introduce your newest friend to your brother," Yudhishtira temporises.
Relationships: Amba | Shikandi & Draupadi (Mahabharata), Amba | Shikandi/Bhishma (Mahabharata), Krishna & Draupadi, Satyabhama & Draupadi (Mahabharata)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Rangabhumi Round Two: An Indian Mythology and Lore Fanfic Exchange





	samavyatha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmbidextrousArcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbidextrousArcher/gifts).

> Thank you for this prompt! Much as I love both Shikhandi and Satyabhama, it had never occurred to me to think of them from Draupadi's perspective.

Nobody has ever accused Draupadi of patience. She was fireborn, and wears the brand of its hasty touch on her palms which are red without powder or paint, in her eyes which her father claims can light up the night. And she _ has _ waited already, nearly a week. It had taken her only an hour after meeting Satyabhama to know the princess would make a suitable friend for Shikhandi, but in that time eight of her brothers had dragged off on a hunt with two of her husbands. She'd introduced Satyabhama to as many of her sisters-in-law as she liked, but they had looked politely bewildered, even Satyajit's placid wife, even Shikhandi's laughing Uma.

She cannot be blamed for dragging Shikhandi, one bracer still on and protesting, over to the garden where she has secluded Satyabhama, for gesturing from one to the other and opening her mouth to make the introductions she has spent days polishing into a pearl: something that will intrigue both, haul them along the road to friendship as she has just hauled Shikhandi across half the antarmahal.

Before she can utter a word Shikhandi breaks her grip on his wrist and stoops into a bow, hands held before his throat, head barely dipping: a master to his apprentice. “Pearl-clad princess of Dwaravati.”

Satyabhama, startled out of her conversation with her husband and Draupadi’s, springs to her feet and bows back, a young woman to an unrelated man. “Peacock of Panchal.”

“Oh,” Draupadi says, suddenly bereft, “you’ve met already.”

Shikhandi turns to look at her in the way that means she has exceeded even his expectations of her stupidity. It is not an expression of which she is accustomed to be the recipient, and--unlike Shatrunjaya and Yudhamanyu--she cannot remain placid. Shikhandi ought always to look at her with fondness unmixed with exasperation.

“We have,” Satyabhama tells her, “but it was a kind thought on your part to bring him to me, as it was unkind on his to disappear into the forests before us Yadavas arrived.”

Shikhandi glares at her, visibly formulating and dismissing unkind retorts, and then barks out a laugh. “I left Partha schooling my brothers at the archery target. I am certain they would welcome your presence if you choose to accompany me.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Shikhandi agrees, still smiling. “I am certain that it will amuse me and very likely you, to watch my brothers flounder as they attempt to be adequate in Arjuna’s judgement. With your permission, Krishna.”

“It was a kind thought, to introduce your brother to your newest friend,” Yudhisthira offers, as though she is a child to be placated by the sweetness of meaningless platitudes.

“It was a foolish one,” she throws back, and pauses for a moment when he winces with the barb of it. How delicate he is, how unaccustomed to having his kindness rejected. “I ought to have known something was amiss, with how it baffled my sisters-in-law to be introduced to Satyabhama.”

“Others have done stupider things, for far more foolish reasons than kindness,” Yudhisthira tells her, and offers Krishna a smile that sits oddly on his grave face. “Have they not, cousin?”

“Your husband,” Krishna says, like a child whining about a prank gone wrong, “means to shame me for reacquainting my father and his mother, but I will forge ahead unblushing, as you ought as well.”

“Panchali has nothing to blush for,” Yudhisthira says, “_she _ did not attempt to establish intimacy by reminding people of a situation of great delicacy.”

“I took my father to my aunt’s door and called out, _ O mother, look what I have brought you in alms_,” Krishna admits, and shrugs. “My father nearly twisted my ear off, which is more disciplining than so small a joke required.”

“And it let them find a trivial commonality,” Draupadi says, taking Satyabhama’s seat, “as you intended. Have they been friends long, my brother and your wife?”

“A matter of a dozen years,” Krishna tells her, “though I am sure neither would easily accept their bond as one of friendship.”

“Not everyone has the gift for it that you share,” Yudhisthira reproves and she is surprised to feel regret when he stands and bows to them both. “I must see to the twins; kind as they are to their horses and scrupulous with their weapons, they will not have thought to seek rest after a week of keeping up with your well-rested kin, Panchali.”

“He will be a good father,” Krishna says as they watch Yudhisthira dwindle into the brightening noonday sky. “And a thoughtful king. They will praise him, in a hundred years.”

“He will be a good king in peacetime, perhaps,” she allows, “but can you know if a man will be a father of whom his sons are proud simply because he is a solicitous brother? I would not be so sure of any of mine, save Satyajit, and that only because his daughter adores him.”

“I have a gift for it, as my solemn cousin says, and for knowing what questions you would rather ask. Come, Krishnaa, it is a little matter, nothing to clasp behind your teeth.”

“No, it is only,” Draupadi says, and laughs a little, forcing anger from her heart. “I thought myself Shikhandi’s confidante, and hoped to find myself Satyabhama’s. It is foolish to resent their secretive natures when that very thing made me so prize them confiding in me.”

“They are neither of them overfond of telling their secrets,” Krishna allows. “But consider, how astute you were in knowing that they would suit each other, when neither appears in need of company.”

It is a good thought, kindly spoken, and she is not so irritable now as when Yudhisthira had essayed much the same. Then, too, Krishna understands that she was not merely in a hurry to introduce her friend to her brother, but rather sought to bind them in friendship. 

“You might think it presumptuous, but they are both so determined, and neither of them… well, my brother is often ill at ease at court even without so many new faces demanding courtesy and I thought to have seen the same discomfort in Satyabhama’s eyes.”

“Oh, you did,” Krishna assures her, laughter dancing in his voice and his eyes. “She was furious to have arrived too late to have gone hunting; at home she lets my sister-in-law rule the women and herself supplies the kitchens. Oh, and she teaches my little Subhadra knife-fighting, but for that I hold Shikhandi responsible.”

“We thought,” she begins, but though she feels foolish for attempting caution around Krishna, it is a matter that calls for caution such as her sisters-in-law might employ: sweet words that reveal less than they conceal. “We looked for you alone, first, and then thought to see the lovely Vaidarbhi grace the seat beside you.”

“I am as glad to confound expectations as ever, dear one, but in this you see not my hand but Rukmini’s. She is of a retiring nature, happier to find herself in my home than in your father’s court where her brother’s allies roamed this week.”

“Then too,” she essays, greatly daring, “Satyabhama was in great need of congenial company.”

“Satyabhama was in great need of archery practice and light sparring without all of Dwaraka’s women offering her overweening compassion,” Krishna grumbles. “I had thought to come alone or not at all, your spies had the truth of that, Krishnaa, but I could not leave her alone. She would say not a word of it to anyone, and both my sister-in-law and my mother Rohini are busy now with Rukmini.”

“It is a change even the most docile woman might find difficult to accustom herself to, though all are taught to expect it. I do not think that I myself would accept it with any ease, coming as this did after such years of devotion.”

Krishna laughs, extends a hand to ruffle her hair and retreats, defeated by the hairpiece her maids threaded through her braids. “I _ have _ heard of your conditions. I apologise for having thought the bargain likely to be of your father’s making. But Satyabhama and I married for neither love nor valour, and she is not jealous in this matter as you would be. She wrote a quarter of those letters herself.”

“I cannot think myself alone in jealousy, though I am glad to know your wife free from it, as any would rejoice to find a friend heart-whole,” she says, lowering her eyes to keep him from seeing disbelief flash in them. “Certainly any of my brothers would be shattered if they thought themselves unseated in love, even Shikhandi, who was early given a woman’s training.”

“Shall I say that proves him a man in truth, or simply of Drupada’s getting? Your father could not bear to part with the least of his cows, the meanest of his villages, lest any think him lessened by the loss rather than elevated by the charitable act. Perhaps he has learned wisdom from the loss that was forced upon him,” Krishna says, and laughs again. “This is too grave a matter to intrude upon so trivial a conversation. Satyabhama is jealous indeed, but not of my love, nor I believe of her position as my wife. We would have been easier as friends, as you and I are, or she and Shikhandi, and that is as great a truth as the marriage into which her father obliged us to enter. If you are of a mind to find proof of her jealousy you must look to her bow and quiver: those she guards as rumour believes she guards my heart.”

“That skill she earned,” Draupadi says. “Yes, I can well understand it. It keeps Shikhandi practising hours after the others have stopped, for any error of his would still be more harshly judged than theirs. I… I have heard that Partha, too, hones his craft as though only excellence can give his life meaning, but I cannot believe him beset by the same longing that drives my brother or your wife.”

“No,” Krishna agrees. “Arjuna seeks to master archery because it is not in his nature to ignore a gift from the hands of the gods: if his gift lay in the kitchen or the dancehall he would pursue it as steadily. It makes him an irresistible enemy, and a pleasure to watch. Come, we will delight our eyes with his accuracy and make mockery of Dhrishtadyumna and Uttamauja.”

* * *

The women of Dwaraka have not followed their menfolk into battle in any numbers: only Subhadra, accompanying little Uttaraa, and Satyabhama, who followed in Krishna's train when he went to Hastinapura for that last, doomed, attempt at reconciliation and has since made herself at home among Draupadi's women. She laughed off any inquiries as to the reason of her presence, and when Subhadra confided laughingly to Draupadi that her sister-in-law felt the women would be safer with an experienced archer in their midst, Draupadi had laughed with her. The Kauravas might attempt any sort of villainy, but the well-ordered Pandava encampment was a far cry from the caves and rough little tents Satyabhama inhabited on night-hunts with Krishna: they would not need her far-seeing eye and death-seeking arm for safety.

She says as much to Satyabhama, on the first night of victory, the first night in fourteen years she has felt happiness glow gold within her, the first night since they rode away from Indraprastha to answer the Kaurava invitation. She has held the anger within her banked like embers under ash; she has turned it to wildfire devouring her enemies, and now, now she is joyous again, like the core of her is made of joy: like sparks flying up into the dark night of her soul: illuminating. She can laugh again, now, and feel it infect other minds.

"Yes, yes, Pandita," Satyabhama says, proffering her a mocking bow, peasant to scholar, "please forgive this ignorant old woman her paranoia."

"I felt safer with you on watch," Uttaraa says, sweet and shy, and oh, Draupadi must be growing old, if she finds such timorousness delightful.

"Will the ignorant old woman come help this frail old man train his heroic nephews tomorrow morning," Shikhandi says, slyly projecting his voice to catch the ears of his students, all of whom immediately set up a volley of protests--he is too hard a taskmaster, they deserve their leisure, there are no enemies to fight now, won't Mother please rescue them--which pulls their fathers and uncles into laughter.

"You are too hard on them," Satyabhama says, and all her laughter is held in her eyes. "We will begin after the noon hour."

It is the noon hour when Satyabhama steps into the Panchala enclosure.

Draupadi can hear her quite clearly: her friend has never been given to quietness save on the hunt, and there is nobody else for three tents around. Yudhishtira has taken her sons to be with their fathers, and she sent Subhadra away before Uttaraa came looking for her. Her brothers are in no state to be seen by a little girl.

Satyabhama's voice has gone slow and heavy by the time she enters the tent Shikhandi shared with Shrutakarma and Shatanika. "Pandita," she says, and Draupadi dredges up a smile from her ash-cold heart.

"He was a hard taskmaster to the end," she says. "Look, look how well my sons were taught to be heroes in their fathers’ absence."

"He was always harsh," Satyabhama agrees, sinking to her knees beside Draupadi and unfolding her fingers from Shikhandi's. "I followed Krishna on his second round of royal visits, you know, after he offended so many people on his first. We came to Kampilya and he swirled off to talk to Satyajit and your father, and I..."

"Decided to innocently discover all the secret passages," Draupadi says, because she has known the Yadavas for almost her entire life.

"As you say, Pandita. I found him, instead. He already had that callus on his thumb."

"My hair used to catch on it," Draupadi says, and lets Satyabhama take his hand away from her. Asvatthama took it off right below the wrist, bones jaggedly gleaming and skin shrinking.

"He was very disapproving, at first," Satyabhama tells her, in the crooning voice she taught Draupadi on a visit when Prativindhya was little and ragged with insomnia. "He had been hiding from us, and pretending it was only his dedication to archery that kept him from being as good a host as Satyajit or Panchalya. Then he offered to teach me. Perhaps only to drive me away, but my father had never let me touch even the smallest knife and I was... we were so young, then. As young as little Uttaraa, younger than my sons."

"And so you picked up a bow for the first time," Draupadi says, and tears her eyes from Shikhandi's right knee, the curl of his calf wrapped in torn silk. "Tell me?"

**Author's Note:**

> This fic uses several of my pet theories about Satyabhama, as well as a timeline I find more satisfactory and coherent.


End file.
